


Can't Wash Your Own Heart Away

by jackles67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackles67/pseuds/jackles67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The filth isn’t on him or in him. It is him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is headed in a wincest direction but it's not there yet. There's some body horror-ish ideationy stuff at the end and sam hooks up with other people and he's really self-loathing and I'm just posting this on ao3 in an attempt to motivate myself to finish it. There's some non-con starting at chapter 2, be warned.

There’s something growing under Sam’s skin, beating around his ribcage and burning through his nerves and it’s going to push him to do something stupid one of these days. He just needs to breathe, just needs to remember that there are people other than Dean, that some of these people might even want Sam.

 

So he steals one of the fake IDs dad got him for cases, one of the ones that say he’s 21, and ducks out when Dad and Dean are digging graves. The bar is dirty and smells like a mix of old spilled beer, cigarettes, and something that probably should have been buried at some point. It’s dark and there’s a dartboard in a corner and a pool table in another, both occupied by men whose eyes follow Sam as he goes to sit at the bar and orders a Jack and coke.

It tastes awful, worse than the few mouthfuls of whiskey he’s gotten from Dad - always accompanied by the fresh pain of something dead or evil ripping him open - but he forces down two more drinks before working up the nerve to smile back at one of the men watching him.

Ten minutes and two Jack and cokes later and Sam is shoved up against a wall, fighting every instinct screaming for him to fight back, throw the guy off and shove something sharp up under his ribs. There are big hands on Sam’s body, one on his hip and one on his jaw, a thumb pushing into his mouth while the guy bites and sucks at his neck.

Somewhere under the heavy sludge of alcohol coating his mind, somewhere behind the sharp panic at being pinned, Sam is grateful that the guy hasn’t even tried kissing his mouth.

Sam sucks at the digit in his mouth, lets his tongue curl sloppily around it and hears the guy groan, low and breathless. The sound soothes Sam, evens out his heartbeat. He makes a small moan in the back of his throat, tips his head back and flicks his tongue against the tip of the guy’s thumb, revels in the way the guy’s hips jerk forward.

There’s a hard line of heat grinding against Sam’s hip and belly, evidence that at least someone wants Sam, fucking needs him right now, so Sam pushes up against it, lets his body move against the guy like he can’t get enough, like this is the absolute best thing he’s ever had.

The guy grunts and shoves Sam to his knees and Sam mouths at the guy’s cock through rough denim, lost in the the way it makes the guy tremble, makes his groans go tight and thready. Once he gets the guy unzipped and in his mouth, it’s over pretty quick - a series of hard thrusts and a sharp moan, a hand around the back of Sam’s head and a bitter taste on his tongue.

Sam spits and stands, a satisfied sense of accomplishment settling in as he watches the guy catch his breath, wide chest heaving with slightly wheezing gasps. 

He walks away before he can see the guy’s face.

***

Sam used to daydream about slicing himself open, collarbone to groin, and cleaning everything out. Taking out every organ one by one and washing them until the water ran clear, cracking open his skull and flushing out the creases in his brain.

He knows that’s not how it works.

The filth isn’t on him or in him. It is him.

***


	2. Chapter 2

The man pressing Sam’s cheek into the rough bathroom wall is angry. Sam can practically taste it in the guy’s breath, can feel his own defenses trying to fight their way up through the sea of alcohol in his system. He’s never been this drunk, isn’t even carrying a gun - there’s a knife in his boot and one up his sleeve but he’s not sure he can move his hands right.

He gives it a try and finds his wrists bound, arms tight behind his back while the guy’s hand squeezes his ass, fingers searching. It’s been a few weeks since Sam’s done this and when the guy in a dirty denim jacket offered him a drink, Sam had accepted, saw something he’d read as need in the man’s eyes and voice.

Turns out it was just violence.

The man is grinding Sam forward and he’s never felt so small, baby-bird fragile and just as helpless. He’s not yelling, not doing anything but rubbing his wrists raw against whatever’s holding him. There’s something in the back of his mind insisting that Sam knows how to get out of this, Dad taught him this one, but Sam’s limbs aren’t responding, his breath is going molasses slow and his eyes keep trying to slide shut.

Sam’s jeans and boxers are shoved down to his thighs and for a second all he can think is finally. Just get it over with. He doesn’t give a fuck about making this guy come, being the best he’s ever had - Sam doesn’t want to be wanted by this one. He wants to be a thousand miles away from the hands tightening on Sam’s ass, the boot knocking his feet apart, the teeth grazing his ear.

The sound of the guy’s zipper is deafening in the grimy stall, echoing in Sam’s suddenly blank mind.

There’s a sharp grunt and Sam has time to be puzzled at the lack of pain before he hears the thud, looks down and to the side to see the man collapsed against the toilet, a thin line of blood down his forehead. Someone’s at Sam’s back again, someone whose shape and smell and hands are familiar, mean safety and a sharp ache. Sam lets his eyelids drop.

“Sammy, what are you doing.” It’s not spoken like a question, just murmured into Sam’s ear before his hands are slipped free of their bindings and his pants are being dragged back up.

He passes out before they even make it out to the car, wakes up in his bed with a gritty dry mouth and what feels like a rusty fork scraping around the inside of his skull. Dean doesn’t say anything.

***

Dean knows. Dean knows and he doesn’t care. He hasn’t brought it up and Sam wants to push, wants to shove it down Dean’s throat until he can’t not bring it up. He wants Dean to tell him to stop, wants Dean to ask him why, wants Dean to forget he ever saw anything. All this time and Dean finally found out and he doesn’t even fucking care.

Sam blows the quarterback at their next school. He does it behind the bleachers after the game, a game that Dean attended with a girl named Mandi. Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he lets the jock - Stan - manhandle him around the corner. He could swear those eyes don’t leave him even as he drops to his knees and opens his mouth.

***

Doing this goes against every order he’s ever gotten. It’s dangerous, it requires baring his throat and letting someone do what they want to him. It means he’s beyond vulnerable, but it’s become the only way he can feel anything close to strong anymore. He’ll get on his knees for these guys because he can make them come gasping, make them cry out and whine and plead and lose control and that’s worth the risk.

***

Sam’s been thinking about letting someone fuck him. He’s always wanted it to be Dean, can think of nothing better than Dean’s scarred, thick fingers pushing into him while he whispers into Sam’s hair, tells him how good he’s being, how much Dean wants him.

Dean’s not an option anymore, not with the way Dean looks at him now, like he’s not even sure who Sam is. On the surface, nothing’s changed since the bathroom incident. In Sam’s mind, everything’s collapsed and he doesn’t know how to live in his own skin anymore. It’s like the air’s gone dead between them, like Sam can’t breathe and he can’t meet Dean’s eye but he wants to stare him down, wants to force him to acknowledge this thing.

Somehow, fucking someone else seems like the way to do that. And if the thought of some not-Dean guy inside him makes him want to tear his own skin off, well, maybe he deserves that.

***


	3. Chapter 3

The guy is perfect. His name is Carl, he’s 5 foot 8 and a little on the heavier side. He must be older than Dad - Sam’s not sure, doesn’t care to ask - and owns the bar Dean’s been working.

Carl likes to talk to Sam, likes to lean in a little too close so Sam can smell the whiskey on his breath, likes to steady himself with one hand high on Sam’s thigh. Sam hangs out the bar after school every day and watches Dean serve truckers, guys with no jobs, guys with no lives and the women who put up with them.

Dean glances over at Sam a few times during his shift, sometimes brings over a coke, but mostly he just flirts with the girls and nods understandingly at the guys. It’s okay. Sam’s getting used to the idea that Dean doesn’t actually care if Sam’s letting a fifty-something year old guy press his crotch to Sam’s leg while he reads Sam’s homework over his shoulder.

Sometimes Carl breathes against the back of Sam’s neck and Sam has to clench his teeth to keep from retching. Sometimes he touches Sam and the skin feels like it’s stained, like it’s crawling with filth.

One week into living in this town and Sam finds out that Carl likes to get blown out back while the bar is open, likes to be able to hear the music and his patrons while he has one hand wrapped around the back of Sam’s head.

Sam also finds out that Carl likes it when Sam doesn’t get hard - he doesn’t actually say anything about it, but one time Sam had a hand on him and Carl pressed a palm to the front of Sam’s jeans and came with a groan when he felt Sam’s soft cock.

Sam finds out that when Carl’s drunk, he likes to grab Sam’s head with both his hands and grind him down until Sam’s eyes are streaming, until Sam’s clawing at Carl’s hips and desperate for air. Carl likes to pull back and come on Sam’s tearstained face.

Yeah, the guy is perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam decides to do it while Dean's working. It's not that he wants to get caught - Dean's never come out back looking for him before - it's just that… Sam wants him close by. If he can't get fucked by his brother, at least he can have this. 

Sam opens himself up in the filthy bathroom. He pushes two fingers in at once, wincing at the burn and trying not to picture how Dean would do it. He thinks Dean would be gentle, but he's not sure. Fuck, maybe Dean would be so disgusted by what he's doing that he'd shove into Sam with no prep at all, just pound into him and tell him how sick he is. 

Sam groans and rocks back on his fingers, spreads them inside himself, stretches his hole fast and too hard. He wonders if Dean would hit him. He knows Dean would never do that to a girl, but maybe, if Sam was bad enough… Maybe Dean would slap him around some, maybe he'd shove Sam's face against the rough mattress, maybe he'd pull Sam's hair hard enough to hurt. 

Sam would take anything Dean could give. Fuck, Sam would do anything for Dean to just touch him. Sam has these fantasies sometimes - he imagines Dean coming to see him, saying they're low on cash, telling Sam that since he's a worthless slut anyway, they may as well be making some money off it. Sam imagines Dean sending him out back with any guy who's willing to drop ten bucks. He pictures Dean leaning in the doorway of the alley, watching as Sam's throat and ass get fucked, watching as his little brother kneels on the hard pavement and takes it. 

Sam comes hard on his own fingers, one hand wrapped around his cock, to the thought of Dean watching him get fucked. He pushes an extra dribble of lube into his ass and washes his hands before making his way out back, carefully not letting his eyes drift over to the bar.


	5. Chapter 5

Carl smells like cheap whiskey and he paws at Sam through his jeans, pushes at Sam's still-sensitive cock and doesn't let him twist away. His breath is hot and nauseating against Sam's neck while he slurs about how hard he's going to fuck Sam, how Sam's not going to be able to sit down for a week. 

He's wasted. Sam gets on his knees and tries to coax an erection out of the guy but it seems impossible. Carl doesn't even notice, just grinds Sam's face against his soft dick before dragging Sam back up and crushing him against the wall, leaning all of his weight into Sam's skinny frame. 

It's all starting to feel a little too familiar and Sam can feel claustrophobia descending on him, tinged with the sinking disappointment that tonight won't be the night. He can't even remember why he needs to do this, just knows that he has to and if this guy can't give him what he needs, then Sam figures someone else out there can. 

He leaves Carl half passed out in the alley and goes inside. It's always gloomy in here, the shitty lighting doing nothing to cover up the fact that this place is a dive, and Sam scans the bar for new faces. 

He catches sight of himself in the dirty mirror behind the bar and has to do a double take. He barely recognizes himself - hair messed up from Carl's hands, cheeks flushed dark and lips bitten red from his solo prep time. He's holding himself differently - back arched, shoulders coming forward, vulnerable, but on display. He's smiling, but it's not his usual open grin. This one's coy, secretive, with a hint of a smirk playing at the corner. 

He looks like someone who knows what he's doing. He looks like a kid who can let a guy bend him over in the back alley behind a bar without so much as batting an eye.


End file.
